Starting out as a Dragon Slave-Chapter 83: Interview

The information had leaked.

And not just a little.

Just hours after the report was submitted to the Bureau, Isaac’s phone started buzzing nonstop: sensational headlines, 24-hour news channels, fiery social media threads. It was everywhere. The mere mention of a Rank C raid escalating into a confrontation with an unknown entity was enough to set the internet ablaze.

But what really fueled the fire were the testimonies.

Jonah. Ivy. Roland. Even Sanae.

All of them, in their vague statements outside the guild building, had mentioned one name:

— Without Isaac, we’d be dead.

— He’s the one who held it off, alone, for the entire fight.

— I’ve never seen anyone move like that. He fought the monster. Alone.

The effect was immediate.

Hunter forums exploded with theories. Dozens of journalists, bloggers, "experts," and self-proclaimed retired hunters started talking about "the man who defeated a dragon." Calls flooded the Guild. Private drones were deployed, trying to capture images at the portal’s exit.

Some even tracked down the full names of the team members by cross-referencing public databases.

And, of course, Isaac’s address wasn’t listed. But that didn’t stop groups of reporters from camping outside the Guild, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Or better yet, get a few words.

Isaac first learned about the chaos from his bed, still recovering.

He opened Twitter.

And saw his name. Everywhere.

He took a slow breath, clenched his jaw.

His first instinct was to protect Léna. She hadn’t signed up for any of this. He knew how quickly a media frenzy could spiral out of control. He sent her a message:

- « Stay out late tonight. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll handle it."

Then, after a cold shower, he threw on a dark coat, pulling the hood low over his face. He slipped out the back of the building, dodged the crowded streets filled with reporters, and walked to the Guild on foot. Head down. Movements deliberate. Controlled.

But no sooner had he stepped through the Guild’s glass doors than a reporter recognized him from across the lobby.

— "It’s him! It’s him!"

A flurry of cameras, microphones, and flashes descended on him instantly.

— "Isaac Mordred ! Is it true you killed a dragon in a Rank C dungeon?!"

— "Do you have extraordinary powers ?"

— "Have you been in contact with non-human magical entities?!"

— "Are you an illegal hunter? A covert military agent?"

Isaac came to a halt. Then raised his hand.

Instant silence.

His gaze swept the crowd without emotion. His voice, calm, cut through the commotion.

— "I’ll answer your questions. But only once. After that, you leave me alone. Me... and my sister."

The cameras turned on. The microphones leaned in.

Isaac stared them down, unblinking.

— "Yes, there was something unknown in that dungeon. Yes, it was... powerful. Yes, it was ready to kill all of us."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

— "But no. I don’t know what it was. I don’t know where it came from. I don’t know what it wanted."

A controlled lie. Perfect.

He continued, his voice firm, measured.

— "I consider myself lucky to have survived. No more, no less. And I’ll be honest: I have no intention of stopping here."

His expression hardened, and now he spoke not to the journalists... but to the cameras.

— "What happened wasn’t normal. It wasn’t a fluke. I can feel it. Something is coming. Something bigger than anything we’ve known. And if I want to be ready, I’ll need to train, rise, and be prepared to kill again."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

He softened, speaking more quietly.

— "I’m not a hero. I’m not a prodigy. I just survived. So stop looking for something else. There’s no mystery. Just a hunter. And one promise: I won’t back down."

Then, without answering another question, he turned on his heel.

The Guild security let him through without a word, the guards themselves frozen by the weight of his statement.

And the journalists?

They stood there, stunned, captivated, unsure whether they were looking at a future hero... or a living warning.

Isaac exited through the back of the building, his heartbeat steady. He had just laid the foundation for his public image. Controlled. Cold. Calm.

But deep down, a certainty still burned in his gut.

The real fight hadn’t even begun.

Isaac shut the apartment door behind him. Dinner had been simple, quiet, as though he needed to breathe in a bit of humanity before plunging back into chaos. Léna had asked a few questions—questions he dodged with a smile, a nod, a reassuring word. She didn’t press further. She knew when he was wearing his armor.

After the meal, he had stretched out on his bed, eyes lost in the darkness of his room.

And as always...

The transition struck.

No warning. No kindness. It cut like a blade against his throat.

His body arched in a silent spasm, and the darkness became another world.

He woke to the cold. To the silence. To the chains.

His cell.

The damp stone walls. The filthy straw. The stench of dried sweat and torn flesh. It all came rushing back. He was Mordred.

His fingers slowly clawed into the ground. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

He didn’t scream.

But his rage simmered.

A long, heavy breath escaped his lips. He rose slowly, the chains sliding down his arms with their familiar metallic rasp.

In the gloom of the cell, his pupils briefly glowed with a deep, unsettling orange. Faint, but unmistakable.

Silent fury, controlled for now, yet steadily growing unstable.

The door burst open.

— "ON YOUR FEET, VERMIN."

Two dragon guards yanked him up roughly. He didn’t resist. Not this time. Not here. Not yet.

They dragged him into the courtyard. The morning air was damp. The smell of blood and sweat was already thick. Around him, other slaves stirred in silence—hollow-eyed, emaciated, stripped of hope down to the bone.

But something was different that day.

The dragon guards were more tense. More violent. Their whips cracked more often, for smaller provocations. They barked orders, struck harder, and tore through the ranks with unusual impatience.

— "YOUR QUOTA IS INCREASED." — "NO EXCUSES." — "THE WEAK DIE. THE STRONG DIG."

One of the guards dragged a slave’s body from the line and beat him until he stopped moving. No one said a word.

Mordred stood still, his icy gaze locked on the scene. His fists trembled.

He was sick of this charade. This forced submission. This pointless violence. This other life where he was still a slave.

But he forced himself to breathe.

Not yet. He had to survive. One more day. Always one more day.

They were marched to the mine.

The same tunnel. The same cries. The same metal against stone.

But today, the tension was palpable. The air felt heavier. The dragons moved among them like hungry raptors. Perhaps it was the shadow of the war. Or maybe just their own fear... transformed into cruelty.

Mordred picked up his pickaxe. The weight of the handle, familiar. The echo of his blows against the rock. He threw himself into the work with mechanical efficiency. He managed his anger by digging.

A rhythm. A breath. A cadence.

Every other strike.

As always.

One stone in the basket. Another in his hand. His system never manifested here. Yet he knew the fruits of these absorptions would be harvested later, in the other world. Where he had control. Where his rebellion took shape.

But around him... others were collapsing.

The exhaustion was visible. Some stumbled. Others shuffled silently, their gazes hollow. A slave vomited on his own shoes and was beaten savagely. No one flinched.

Another, younger, fell to his knees and took an eternity to rise again.

And the dragons kept whipping. Again. Always. More and more.

The quotas were impossible. The bodies were breaking down.

Mordred held on.

But at what cost?

His muscles burned. His back ached. And his anger, dark and voracious, kept growing. freewebnσvel.cѳm

— "You’re tools. NOT MEN," shouted one of the guards.

Mordred gripped the pickaxe tighter. His breathing quickened. For a brief second, his hand turned scaly. He forced it back to human.

He looked around. The crumbling bodies. The empty eyes. The blood on the rocks.

The day’s end arrived like a muffled sigh.

The final pickaxes dropped in a hollow echo of dry exhaustion. The slaves, trembling, backs broken and arms drained, were lined up at the tunnel’s exit for the daily inspection ritual.

One by one, their baskets were emptied before the dragon guards. Angry shouts erupted at even a single missing stone. Some had barely reached half of their imposed quota. An old man was thrown to the ground, his nose shattered under a guard’s boot. Another was dragged away in silence. No screams, not even a whimper.

Mordred barely passed.

His basket, filled just to the minimum required, was weighed, inspected, and grudgingly approved with a reluctant growl.

He held back from responding. From saying what he thought. That’s where he was now.

They sent him back, still chained, to his cell. The path seemed longer each evening. The ground heavier. The screams more distant. He exchanged no words with anyone. This world no longer held space for speech.

Once inside, the door slammed shut behind him.

The chain on the wall. The straw on the floor. The smell. Everything was where it always was.

Mordred settled into a corner, his back against the wall, his vacant gaze fixed on the rough floor. His muscles still buzzed with exhaustion and restrained tension. But his thoughts were circling.

He didn’t truly sleep here anymore. He waited.

It was much later when the door opened, without a sound.

No metal key. No guard. No chain.

Just a hooded figure slipping inside like a shadow. No light illuminated the cell, but the presence was immediately recognizable.

She closed the door behind her, silent.

Mordred didn’t move, still leaning against the wall. He lifted his eyes slightly toward her, a corner of his mouth curling into a faint smirk.

-« You know... if you keep sneaking in here every night like this... people might start thinking you’re in love with me."

Silence.

Then a faint chuckle, muffled, almost mocking.

The figure pulled back her hood.

Silver hair and Elystria’s delicate face emerged in the faint, dying light of a torch outside the corridor.

Her violet eyes lingered on him for a moment before slowly traveling down the length of his posture, saying nothing. It was as if she were assessing his condition. Or his sincerity.

- « You should learn to say thank you instead of thinking you’re irresistible," she finally murmured, her voice deceptively light.

Mordred shrugged.

- « I’ve already been whipped today. No need to slap me with lies as well."

She stared at him, her lips slightly parted, then smiled faintly. But her gaze wasn’t soft.

- « You’re not sleeping?"

- « I never sleep here. This isn’t a place made for dreams."

She nodded slowly.

Then, gently, without coming closer, she said:

- « There are things you need to know. And tonight... this isn’t a courtesy visit."

The mask slipped. Just a little.

Mordred slowly raised his head, his pupils still faintly orange in the darkness.

- « Then speak, princess. If you’ve come to me like a thief, I assume what you have to say is worth hearing."